


Remember that time Clint Barton got spectacularly drunk?

by orphan_account



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clintasha - Freeform, Drunkenness, F/M, Hangover, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Friendship, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No? Well neither does he.<br/>AU, Clint+Tasha</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3.am

“Nat,” he murmured huskily against her ear. Her body shivered in response, and his deep laugh rumbled against her back. “You’ve always been the only girl I could ever,” Her prince’s expression changed, became troubled, and he opened his mouth – “Hey I just met you!”

Wait, what? Nat blinked up at him, bemused and – though she’d never admit it – completely pissed off that he’d ruined her perfect moment.

“And this is craaazy!” Her dark prince sang against her ear. “But here’s my number!” And the dark bed she’d been lying in disappeared, the moonless night to be replaced by her bedroom walls and the singing-

“So call me may-” Nat hit the speaker button on her phone, face like thunder.

“What?” She said tersely, looking at her alarm clock as she did so. 3am? Oh man. This had better be good.

The caller was silent for so long that Nat removed the phone from her face and checked the display.

 Caller – Clint Barton. That explained so much.

All of a sudden, raucous giggling erupted from the phone, and Nat held it back to her ear. If she’d looked like thunder before, now Hurricane Sandy had _nothing_ on her.

“Barton, what do you want?”

Silence.

“Barton?”

More giggling.

Insanity? Possibly.

“Clint, are you okay?”

“Tasha! Nat! Natasha! You the man! You the girl! You! I need you to-” Here Clint paused, and it could have been that he’d forgotten exactly _what_ he’d needed Nat to do.

“To…?” Nat said, wondering why the hell she’d had to be woken up for _this_.

“Hmm? Oh. Oh! Oh, I needed you to…”

Nat put her fingers to her temples. “To?”

“Three!!”

“Oh, for Christsakes Barton! To what?”

“Hmm?”

Nat rolled her eyes, and hit the end button on her phone.

_Hey I just met you!_

“What?!?”

“Nat? Nat Romanoff?”

“You aren’t Barton.”

The voice sounded apologetic. “No, no – he has just passed out in my front lawn. He said you’d come and get him.”

“Oh Jesus.” Nat sighed. She looked at her clock again. 3.05 am. “Where are you?”

“Hollyacre. You’ll see him when you drive up. I don’t think I can move him.”

Nat said nothing; just put the phone down, cursing her luck, cursing Barton, cursing her dresser as her big toe made contact with it and above all cursing her goddamned ringtone.

 

Unsurprisingly, Nat’s town was mostly empty at 3 in the morning. No joggers or people pushing prams, only comatose teenagers. As she pulled into the Hollyacre estate, she saw cars gathered outside the one house with lights on and a single, prone figure passed out in the yard.

Pulling up, Nat slammed her fist against the horn, letting out a long, ear-splitting wail.

The figure curled in on itself pitifully.

Oh good. He was still alive.

Possibly not for much longer.

Nat carefully made her way across the lawn towards him, stepping around the beer bottles and a broken garden gnome. Its head had come separate from its body, and Nat sympathised. She knew exactly how it felt.

“Barton.”

“Nergh?”

“Barton.”

“Momma?”

“Hell no. Barton.”

“Tasha? My Nat? My head hurts.”

“Get up.”

“Can’t. Legs don’t work. Normal?” Clint said, wiggling his fingers to demonstrate.

“I am not dragging your ass to my car.”

Clint apparently found this hilarious for all of three seconds before he started sobbing.

Nat swore lustily. “Would you _get up_?!”

“Nat. Nat I can’t! My legs! They’ve gone!!”

Nat sighed, and tried not to be bitter about the fact that a wind was picking up, sitting down next to her pathetic neighbour.

“They’re right there.” She said, aiming for soothing, for sympathetic.

Clint sobbed harder.

Quickly dismissing her sympathetic idea, Nat grabbed the boy under his armpits, and started tugging him towards her car.

It cheered him up anyway. He started chuckling every time he went over a bump, and when Nat dropped him accidentally he thought it was _hysterical_.

“Barton, what are you even doing here?”

Clint went cross eyed as he tried to think of the answer. “Tony.”

“Bugger.”

“Tony shwanted me to,”

“To?”

“Three!”

Nat dropped him. On purpose.

“SHOOF. To unswind.”

“Unswind?”

“Exshactlty. He shed I wash un uptight shlittle shbastard and I shneeded to unshwind.”

“Did he now.”

Clint nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you feel better?” Nat was actually curious as to the answer. She didn’t think she had ever seen Clint drunk.

“Shnope. Tummy hurts.” Clint pointed to it as though Nat needed a physical guide. Or maybe he just needed to remember where his stomach was.

“I’m hardly surprised.” Nat said, dragging him a few feet further. “You were lying on the decapitated body of a gnome.”

Barton went green. “Ronny?”

“What? No.” Thinking quickly, Nat improvised. “No, it was Gerald. He’d been having an affair with Ronny’s wife.”

Clint nodded happily. “Serves him right. Nat?”

“Er, yeah?” Nat was trying to work out how she was going to lie Barton across her back seat.

“Nat, I’m a little shtired. And I love talking to you. Shyou’re my favourite person and I shlove you very, very much.”

“You are out of your mind, Barton.” Nat responded, shaking her head. Barton was drunk off of his head, but she was pleased he couldn’t see her blush.

“Even though you’re not very nice most of the time. But I think you fake it. Soooo I shlove you. But can you help me to my car? I need to drive home.” And he started to clamber to his feet. He was surprisingly steady, but he just stood there blinking and looking rather like a lost penguin.

“My car’s just here.” Nat said, slipping Barton’s arm around her neck. He leaned against her and Nat staggered.

“Ooh! I’ll drive.” 


	2. 4.am

Getting Barton in the car proved to be no easy feat. Nat was left thanking God that he wasn’t an angry, sad or insane drunk. Instead, he was an incredibly cheerful drunk.

“WE’RE ALL GOING TO, SUNSHINE MOUNTAIN.”

“No,” Nat said firmly, shoving him into the passenger seat of her red corsa. His head connected with the door frame, making a resounding _thud;_ but he didn’t seem to mind. “We are taking you home.”

Barton considered this with a look of deep concentration. By the time that Nat had climbed into her own seat, he was talking to his finger.

“But she said we weren’t going to Sunshine Mountain. I don’t know what to do.”

Nat sat and watched in open mouthed amazement as Barton listened hard to his finger’s reply.

“True. And she’s very pretty.”

The finger seemed to agree.

Barton nodded once more, before noticing that Nat had joined him the car.

“Nat! Natanananananananana. Natabannana.”

Nat narrowed her eyes, trying not to laugh at this version of her best friend.

“Natatataaananana.”

“Mmm?”

“ARE WE THERE YET.”

Nat started and put the car in drive. As they wound through the pitch black streets, Barton continued to work on his song.

“Natatanananana bannna and Clint are going to SUNSHINE MOUNTAIN. Where the gumdrops shlive.”

“We’re all going to, shunshine, shunshine shmount” _yawn_ “-hic! Sunshine Shmountain! Nat and ickley Clint!”

                Nat had managed to hold it together for most of the drive, but as a snore erupted from Barton, she lost it. Bent over the steering wheel with tears streaming down her face, she pulled up in front of Barton’s house.

                All of the lights were off, which presented yet _another_ problem. How the hell was she going to get Clint upstairs to his room without his Uncle catching on?

                “Clint?” She hissed, shaking his shoulder. His head lolled alarmingly, so she shook harder.

                “Go away. Can’t be morning yet. Tell the school I’m shick.”

                “Uh huh? We’ve got to get you to bed, brainiac.”

                “Shbed shmed.” Clint slurred. “Clinty shtay here.”

                Nat shook her head. “Not an option.”  
                “Shis.”

                “Shisn’t.” Nat facepalmed. “ _Isn’t.”_ she corrected herself. “We need to get you upstairs.”

                “Thank you, no thank you.” Clint said, closing his eyes again. Nat decided that try to reason with a drunk person was like trying to reason with a severely brain damaged, but very happy, five year old.

                She opened her door, allowing the cold wind to whistle in and Clint let out a small sob.

                “Noooooo.” He wailed as Nat ripped his door open. The redhead took a hold on his arm and _tugged_.

                Clint tumbled out onto his drive, lying there like a corpse.

                He opened his eyes. “Ow.”

                “Up.” Nat demanded, and Clint clambered to his feet. He aimed for the car, but Nat glared, and he re-directed for the house, grumbling.

                “NAT’S A MEANY.” He yelled at the top of his voice before the Nat in question slapped a slim hand over his mouth.

                “Ssdfnuirqegpqrgwerg?” He asked through her hand, but she was flinty eyed, and it stayed in place.

                “Srgwg.” He said, and shrugged.

 

Getting Clint to cooperate to sneaking himself inside was no issue. All Nat had to do was make her eyes comically wide and go “Let’s play a _game!!_ ”

                Clint’s giggling was the problem.

                He giggled solidly from the moment Nat jimmied the living-room window to the moment she shoved him onto his bed, flicking off his light switch. Nat had been _certain_ that his Uncle Jack was about to open his bedroom door and see Clint giggling on the stairs. Barton would have been slapped under house arrest for the remainder of the basketball season.

                “Okay.” Nat said, sliding Clint’s curtains closed.  In the dark, Clint looked a little less insane and a fair bit smaller. Nat felt her scowl softening. He’d snuggled under his covers, nesting himself in and pulling them up to his chin. “Okay. Sleep. I’ll see you at college tomorrow.”

                “Collge schmollege.” Clint yawned. “Staying home shick.”

                Nat narrowed her eyes. “Like hell. We’ve got our science presentation.”

                “Schience Shmience.”

                Nat shook her head, realising that it was utterly pointless arguing. Small snuffles had started to drift over from Clint’s bed, who was apparently sleeping the sleep of the plastered.

                “Night Barton.” Nat said quietly, and pulled the bedroom door silently shut behind her.

 


	3. 8am

When the doorbell of the Barton residence buzzed at 8am the next morning, Clint’s foster father, Jacques, was not impressed.  
                “What?” He growled as he opened the door, mind still caught up in his crossword. It was Wednesday. Wednesday meant coffee and the crossword on the back porch. Not Clint’s friends turning up on his doorstep. He paid his taxes, he mowed the front lawn occasionally – didn’t that mean he was safe from this kind of thing?  
                “Is Clint in?” The girl from next door asked brightly. She was standing on his doorstep with a packet of ginger biscuits in one hand and an evil-looking textbook in the other.  
                “Well he ain’t out.” Jacques replied, eyeing the cookies. “Are those for me?”  
                Nat smiled charmingly. “No.” She said, and walked past him into the house, heading for the stairs.  
                Jacques looked after her, reaching up to scratch his thatch of greying hair. “How does the boy do it.” He muttered. “Damned impudence.”  
                His eyes brightened, he stood a little taller.  _Impudence. I-m-p-u-d-e-n-c-e. Nine letters. 3-across. “Offensively bold, impertinent.” Perfect!!_  
   
                Nat pushed open the door to Clint’s bedroom. When she had left it last night the curtains had been drawn and Clint’s dark head had been poking out of his nest of blankets. Now, the curtains were still closed but Clint’s head was missing.  
                So was the rest of Clint, which was lucky.  
                “Barton?” Nat called, navigating her way around Clint’s piles of textbooks and sports kit. “You here?”  
                Silence, and then a small, pitiful mewl came from the direction of Clint’s bathroom. Nat’s eyebrows raised and she tucked her head around the door.  
                “Barton?”  
                The curtains around the bath jerked to one side, and a pair of wide, dark eyes peered at her over the edge of the tub.  
                “Shh.” He said, “Clint’s asleep.”  
                Nat’s forehead furrowed. Her best friend was sitting in an empty bath, talking in third person. This didn’t bode well.  
                “Why’s Clint in the bath?”  
                The eyes studied her blearily. “Clint doesn’t know. But he likes it.”  
                “Is, uh, Clint ever getting out of the bath?”  
                Barton shook his head, a rueful grin pulling at his mouth. “Last time Clint tried to do that, the world couldn’t handle it. It turned all-” Clint waved his hands around in a way that resembled a drowning man but which was probably supposed to just look shaky.  
                “Ah. I see.”  
                “Mmm.”  
                “You know we have a half day, right?”  
                “Huh?”  
                “College?”  
                “Oh. Oh!”  
                “Yeah.”  
                “Oh man. The presentation, right?”  
                “Right.”  
        Clint fell back, resting his feet on the taps.  “The presentation. Oh hell. Clint had forgotten all about that.” He glared at Nat, but it was a poor effort. “Is that why you came round? ‘Hey Clint – nice bathtub – revision time?’”  
        Nat nodded shamelessly. “Pretty much. But I brought biscuits.” She held them up for inspection, and Barton nodded his approval.  
        “You may enter the bathtub.” He said, yawning. “But no loud voices. Clint’s head hurts.”  
        “Just his head?”  
        “And Clint’s tummy.”  
        “Did you really just say ‘tummy’?”  
        “And this,” He waved a limp hand at her. “This hurts too. But that’s because Clint shut the door on it.”  
        “Twit.” Nat sat cross-legged on the floor by the bath and opened the science textbook on her lap.  
        “Yeah. Do we have to do this?”  
        “Yuh huh.” Nat opened the biscuits and offered them to Clint. He went vaguely green and passed.  
        “Okay then – Keywords on photosynthesis.”  
   
   
        An hour later and Clint was feeling well enough to consider getting out of the bath, having made a solemn vow to anyone who might have been listening that he was Never. Drinking. Again.  
        “You’re such a lightweight.” Nat commented, brushing her hands and shedding crumbs. Ginger nuts. Who knew?  
        “But this is kind of like that school trip we took to Budapest, remember? When Darcy got smashed and we found her in the bath the next morning? This is  _exactly_ like Budapest!”  
        Clint eyed her from where he’d claimed the textbook. “You and I remember Budapest  _very_ differently.”  
        Nat waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway. Class starts at 2. So I’ll see you then.”  
        “You’re leaving me?!”  
        Nat subjected Clint to a glare that would have crippled a lesser man. “I am.”  
        “In the bath?!”  
        “No duh.”  
        Clint scowled and closed the shower curtain between them. “Fine!” He called from behind it. Bright lights lanced behind his eyes – his brain was apparently still not up to loud noises. “The Kingdom of Bathtub doesn’t need you anyway!”  
        There was a light chuckle from the other side of the duck-printed divide and the sound of a door closing.  
        Clint was alone.  
        In a bathtub.  
        With no water.  
        Great.  
 


End file.
